the earth, but the burning gray reflected, caught on the splinters of a broken window. “Look, Doris—a blind house. Eyeless.” She twisted around to watch it pass. “It could be my house. In a few years.”
Saying nothing, Doris increased the pressure on the gas pedal. As the rig went by, a ram in a makeshift corral stared after it impassively. Beneath curving horns, its slitted eyes gleamed yellow.
A taper of smoke still rose from the butt of Doris’s last cigarette in the ashtray. She’d followed a man in a green surgical gown down the hall just a short time ago. Athena squirmed on a vinyl sofa in the waiting area, her body clenching and unclenching, while she mouthed the paper cup of flat Coke that was supposed to settle her stomach.
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was what Doris would tell her. She sat, fighting nausea…and waiting.
PART THREE
THE HUNT
The summer woods now, green with gloom…where even at noon the sun fell only in windless dappling upon the earth which never completely dried and which crawled with snakes—moccasins and water snakes and rattlers, themselves the color of the dappled gloom….
William Faulkner
Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden….
Herman Melville
From deep within its shelter, it called. The cry echoed in the flesh.
No response came.
It waited. It called and waited, an aching monster, sated but alone.
“But these dogs are killers! We can’t just sit back and hope they go away.”
“Come off it, Steve. They already canceled all the camping permits. Stopped all the canoe rentals, even. Goddamn—just what the fuck else do you want?” The corners of Barry’s mouth curled down in sneering exasperation.
Red-faced and sullen, Steve didn’t answer, just stared through the windshield. Both sipped from quart bottles of beer. Lazy with the heat, a yellow jacket flew in a side window and buzzed against the glass before finally settling on the dash. Barry’s hand shot out, smashing it flat. “Finally got one of the suckers.”
“Can’t understand you.” Steve shook his head in chagrin and bewilderment. “I mean, why you’re taking his side. I know I usually don’t say anything, but I can’t see what’s so damn threatening here.” Their boss, Frank Buzby, had officially opposed the idea of the stateys launching an all-out hunt for the dogs and even now worked every connection he had in an effort to squash the project.
Barry’s face went hard as he coolly threw the bottle at the trunk of a dead tree. The bottle splintered and fell, leaving a trace of foam on the gray wood. To end the discussion, he started the engine, slammed the car into gear. Worn tires dug, leaving twin furrows. “Just can’t figure it out, can you, detective?” he smirked. “Never stopped to think maybe ole Frank and me know some guys who wouldn’t be too crazy about a search party. Or maybe we got some stuff of our own hidden we don’t want nobody messing with.”
“You going to start that crap about your fancy mob connections again?”
Barry snorted contemptuously, and they rode for a time without speaking. Then, casually, he asked if there had been any interesting bulletins lately.
“Yeah, a good one. Maybe you should read them once in a while. I mean, just for entertainment.”
Barry stopped humming. “What the hell’s the matter with you all of a sudden?”
Determined not to answer, Steve gulped from his beer, but the angry silence couldn’t be maintained against the heat and the stale swim of alcohol in his brain. “They brought in some woman, just about dead from exposure —bulletin said—found her deep in the woods. Practically catatonic at first.”
Barry watched the road, frankly bored.
“Then she started babbling about how her and her daughter’d been camping with some friends and got attacked by some guy who came out of the woods. They’re still trying to figure out when the hell all this is supposed to have happened. Nobody knows how long she’d been out there. Or what direction she came from.”
“Shit, Steve, she could’ve just been on drugs or something and got lost out there.” Abruptly, his face took on an uncustomary expression of interest. “Say, did they ever catch that guy? You know, the one got away from the asylum?”
“Putting one and one together like that.” His partner nodded. “Dangerous lunatic escapes. Campers get attacked. Might be a connection. Regular steel trap, that mind of yours. Ought to be a cop or something.”
“Well, us country boys can’t think too good. Shit. Know what I’m talking about? Not like you big city officers. Shit. I suppose you’re gonna tell me dogs did this too? Look, Frank’s got us working on it, don’t he?” He lowered his voice to what he considered a persuasive tone. “What in hell more do you want?”
“Yeah, great job he’s got us doing, too.” Steve held up the map Buzby had given them, a topographical chart marked with red
“Reckon that should do it for the dogs, don’t you? Easier than sending a damn army out here.” Barry smirked again. “Probably get that loony too.”
Steve watched the trees go by. “I hope they catch him soon,” he muttered. “Starving—that’s no way to die. And this heat. Dying of thirst must be like burning to death, only slow.”
“Yeah, well, I guess you’d know all about thirst.” He took his hands off the wheel, cracked his knuckles and grinned. The car veered rapidly toward a wall of trees. Smiling broadly at Steve’s sharp gasp, he settled his hands back on the wheel and wrenched the car back on course.
Again, Steve tried not to speak. He took a deep breath, imbibing the musty pine smell. “Poor Athena. Must’ve been quite a shock for her yesterday. Finding him like that.”
“Shit, she ain’t all that upset.”
Matty lay at the rim of a hollow: smooth contours suggesting the foundation of a vanished house, only a
